Untitled
by GhostRelic
Summary: A response to a Tumblr prompt: A Sansa/Oberyn fic including twine, a sapphire, a peasant, a piece of bread, and smut. [COMPLETE]


**A response to a prompt found in my Tumblr inbox.**

_From MadTrout: *cracks knuckles* Alright. Are you ready? I know you like me so I don't feel bad about this: A Sansa/Oberyn fic including twine, a sapphire, a peasant, a piece of bread, and smut. I hope you enjoy/partake in the challenge!_

**Title:** Untitled  
**Pairing:** Oberyn/Sansa  
**Rating:** T (language, sexual content)  
**Word Count:** 3,100(+/-) [complete]

_*notes: unbeta'd, AU_

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He hated King's Landing.

Between the pomp and preening, false smiles and dubious assurances, Oberyn Martell would always despise the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. Even as a child he sought solace in an old dun cloak and the anonymity of slipping away into the population of the city.

The further he walked, the more the crowds carried him, rudderless, to the depths beyond the divide of rich and poor.

King's Landing, in and of itself, felt cramped no matter where you stood. Although, Flea Bottom seemed to actually squeeze in upon itself; wooden buildings, tall and leaning, sturdy to be sure, yet stifling in the way their lumber carcasses held on to the thick rotting heat of life - and death - amongst the poorest.

However, regardless of stink or proximity, the Viper most certainly preferred the constitution of Flea Bottom's inhabitants over the arrogance found in the Red Keep. Peasants tended to exude both a wary and carefree manner that any Dornish man could appreciate.

The last time he'd been to court was to cull the Lannister pride. And cull it he did. It took nothing, really, merely a nudge in the right direction and the patience to watch an already crumbling house topple to the ground. But it was the plucking of a northern rose, right under the nose of those lions, that was the greater score.

_The Stark girl_. He smiled at the thought of her, though couldn't remember her name. Northern innocence wrapped in the look of the Riverlands. She was a beautiful girl. Too beautiful to be confined in towers and condemned as a traitor - but an easy piece to be played when the Lannisters held her both at such a high value and such a low loathing.

She had told him he was the first to smile at her in years. So he smiled.

She had told him he was the first to touch her without intent to harm. So he touched her.

She had told him he was the first to kiss her like a woman. So he kissed her.

She had told him he was the first man to make her happy. So he gifted her a tear-shaped sapphire on a fine gold chain, and told her she would never cry again.

She had told him he was the only man who truly loved her. So he laid with her, claimed her virtue, and continued to seek and find pleasure in her body until the day Lord Tywin demanded her assessed to wed the Imp.

The right amount of chaos at the right time; it was the advantage he needed to ensure collapse. After that day, and for one hundred days after that, war raged heavily through the capital. Vermin were flushed, lions were skinned, dragons ruled, and an easy peace had settled over Westeros in the ensuing eight years.

But nothing, Oberyn mused, no amount of peace or dragon fire, would remove the oppressive swelter of Flea Bottom.

With a smirk, the Prince of Dorne move further on toward the bay. Keeping to the narrow strip of daylight cutting over the rooftops, blazing a line onto the narrow streets. Oppressive as the heat may have been, it was the lure to the potentially cool shadows that proved most dangerous.

Yet it was in the shadows, as he strolled, that a glint caught his eye. It was so out of place, much like he, that it begged him take notice.

A flash of blue. Oberyn laughed inwardly at the direction his thoughts were taking him, but outwardly his direction was steadfastly drawn to glimmer of colour that sparked a curl of long forgotten arousal.

...And every fraction was snuffed out once caught up to the filthy beggar and honest recognition was allowed to set in.

He could see just a glimpse of it here and there, but he knew that teardrop anywhere - had dreamt for many years of how it hung just at the top of her breasts…

It wasn't her, though, the Stark girl. No, this was a child belonging to the dirty, dangerous street they shared. Oberyn blocked the way of the whelp and watched, darkly amused when the child stuttered to a halt.

Wrapped in a worn cloak, its small hood wagging from side to side, eyeing for an escape, the Viper could not help but notice that as poor as the fabric looked on the outset, this close fine embroidery and stitching could be picked out. It was the way of things here: thievery was a master's trade. Honed at any age, respected until you were caught, then you died for it.

Master or not, skilled or not, a child was a child and hardly an obstacle for a warrior.

Gripping the child's bony shoulder, his thumb flicking at the length of twine securing the sapphire pendant, Oberyn glared ineffectually at the top of the stained hood. Then questioned without a hint of malice, "Where did you steal it?"

The body under the lovely, grimy cloak stiffened in offence. The voice held no clue as to whether he had captured a girl or a boy. "My lady… _gave_ it to me."

There was that hard-fought wariness Oberyn so appreciated. The child knew they gave something away, now it was up to him to indulge or betray. The Viper chose the former.

Producing a heel of bread, held flat in his palm so as not to draw attention, he leaned down to the unkempt, unwashed child, and whispered, "_Show me_."

"Follow me," the urchin whispered back at length, as a grubby hand swiped the morsel and stowed it before the older man could even think to look.

"Alright, little one," he chuckled. "Take me to your lady."

They walked and walked; along the edge of buildings and through steep back alleys, and Oberyn knew the child was leading him back toward the castle. They trekked uphill to the northern flower. He felt that appropriate, but racked his memory for sign or tale of the girl.

The Starks were never much for hiding, but perhaps there was a way for this one. Obviously if she had given the child her finery she was somewhere near, tucked away within the cramped masses.

_Good girl_, he thought. Immediately following, he thought of how her pale skin looked next to the rich brown of his. How her eyes reflected, bright and blue, like the freshwater pools of Dorne. How her cunt slicked with the attention of his clever fingers, and how her body accepted his cock in its tight embrace. He'd had virgins before, but there was something ethereal about their intimacy giving the girl life - reviving her from the husk she had been hollowed out to.

Oberyn smiled and silently continued following the dirty lump-of-child.

There were considerations to be made, now. Even if the Stark girl had made a new life, he would like to give her a better one. He decided then to take her to his home, or perhaps back to hers. There were wolves in the North once again, and alliances would always be smiled upon. Perhaps he would take the opportunity to love her again, love her better - better than the pawn he played her for initially.

He held no guilt in that matter, in his actions before, truly, but that didn't mean he would not offer solace. Debts came in all forms after all, and restitution wasn't a concept known only to Lannisters.

The gates of the Keep were close, he knew that for sure, but the rest of the details were swallowed by thick brush growing from the stones of the rocky cliffs, the deafening sound of waves, and a narrow ledge the child led him over. It was dangerous; more to it, Oberyn recognized that they would be sneaking onto the castle's grounds - _where_ was another matter altogether.

Five or six steps ahead the small form moved with practiced ease, and the man behind wondered if this was how the child survived - meeting Lady Stark, pandering to her sensitive nature instead of begging. It made sense, and would have been a sure way to stay alive, but he still could not recall her at the Keep - a prisoner or otherwise.

He knew unease then, palmed the blade tucked in his belt and prepared for a scenario perhaps a little more nefarious. There was no promise the pendant came from the same lady the Viper knew, nor was there a guarantee the child was trustworthy. He had killed babes before, it didn't sit well with him, no, but when the choice between lives is his blood or the blood of an enemy the answer decides itself.

Somewhere amidst pondering the killing of a child and picking a safe path to tread, the child in question vanished. Oberyn swore aloud as his hair stood on end. Looking farther down the path, there was naught but a treacherous trail. He contemplated turning to leave but his damnable curiosity had his feet shuffling steps forward, continuing on until a quiet hiss happened behind him.

He swung around, his balance easily maintained on the jagged lip, and saw the little one - face hidden deep under their hood - calling to him with a wave. The wall they had slid along in their journey had shifted in that particular spot, bowed out with some past movement of rock and created a gap that could only be seen from one direction.

Without a word, Oberyn squeezed through the gap in the wall and fell in step behind his mystery guide.

The brush was a thick on the immediate inside of the wall as it was on the outside, and the Viper had to slither on his belly in order to traverse a portion of the thick tangle. But the inconvenience was heartbeats in duration before it cleared enough so he could stand.

It was a forest inside the walls of the Keep, a cluster of trees with an impenetrable canopy, and Oberyn thought hard to place his bearings. This wasn't part of the extensive gardens, nor was it part of the King's Wood.

_King's Wood_.

…Godswood.

It looked so much smaller when viewed from high in a tower, but on the ground, it was a wonder.

It was quiet. That was the first nuance he noticed - nothing but a breeze to rattle the leaves. The second was that the air was cooler in the woods - the sun stopped high up in the branches, leaving just the right amount of warmth to trickle through and seep into the loam.

This treasure had existed longer than he, and Oberyn had to consider why it was he never cared about it before now.

The shuffle of feet before him drew his attention back to his actuality, all of it - back to his reasons for being in the godswood to begin with.

"Your lady, she lives in these woods?" he scoffed, his fingers clenched firmly on the hilt of his knife.

"Yes."

The calm in which the child spoke caused Oberyn to heed caution. "_Where_, child?"

Small thin fingers on a small thin hand pointed to mound of earth directly beneath the largest tree in the copse.

Oberyn hardly had time to orchestrate his thoughts into something coherent before the child strode by him to that very same pitch of dirt, crouched down, reverently patted the grass, and said in a loud, happy whisper, "I brought a friend, mother."

Cold. There was no warmth left in King's Landing, and Oberyn wondered for an insane moment if the North had ushered some icy curse onto him for his long ago cruelty.

His feet moved, leaving his mind and caution several paces behind; moved him to the little lush hill that held underneath it the girl with rivers in her eyes, bent his legs, and had him kneeling across from the child.

The child.

He grew even colder.

Using his thumb and forefinger, Oberyn tugged back the hood of the little cloak of intricate stitching, exposing the filthy face of… himself.

"Look at me, boy." His voice sounded rough and pitchy, like it came from ten different directions, but the child, _his son_, obeyed all the same.

And there it was. There _he_ was, _she_ was… Straight black hair coming to a peak, dark skin to help defuse the dirt, and the bluest eyes he had only ever seen once before.

The boy swallowed audibly under the serious scrutiny of the dark stranger - the man who wanted to meet his lady mother.

"You are mine. My seed made you."

But the man's words were muddy, like he was speaking underwater. He made no sense at all, and that confusion scared the little boy.

Oberyn gently grasped the boy's hand and laid it palm-down in his, while wetting the pad of his other thumb in his mouth. He made sure he had his son's attention before wiping his thumb in tiny circles over the back of the smaller hand. The dust washed away, but his skin colour remained. Lining his hand with the smaller, he brought the tone of each up for comparison.

The boy said nothing.

Moving his hand up, the older ran his fingertips along the twine to where the sapphire tear dangled, observing the boy as he followed the movement with his eyes.

"I gave her this." He traced the shape of the gem.

Blue eyes shot a glare to black, then seemed to get caught in an unshared memory. The boy smiled small to somewhere off in the distance before focusing once again on the man at eye level.

The Viper smiled back, careful and kind, though his intonation was rather subdued. "It made her happy. She smiled just like you."

The thumb on the jewel traced back over the roughened twine. "It had a gold chain-"

"I had to pay them to help me bring her here."

His son flicked his gaze back down to where his mother rested and smiled again, smoothing his little palm over the blades of grass.

Father and son stayed silent for a time, thinking, letting new realities settle to where they should.

"You have sisters," Oberyn said finally, finding his own hand brushing through the lush green as well. He waited until the boy met his eye. "I would like you to meet them, and _I know_ they would like to meet you."

"Sisters?"

It was so quietly said that if he wasn't looking at the boy the sound could have been attributed to a trick of the wind in the trees. Either way Oberyn nodded his confirmation.

"Brothers?"

There was his own bright-eyed curiosity, it just happened that the colour was blue not black - it hardly mattered when it looked so good on the boy. Oberyn grinned a little and shook his head. "No brothers," he stated like a conspirator. "That honour belongs solely to you."

Again, they paused in thoughtful silence. Again, Oberyn was the one to speak and end the quiet.

"What's your name?"

"Mother called me Ned, sometimes."

"Ned Sometimes?" His son nodded, the jest beyond him. Oberyn didn't carry on the tease. "What did she call you other times?"

The boy blinked fast and looked back down to his mother. "Snow," he choked out from the strangle of obvious sorrow.

Oberyn took in the features of the boy in a blatant look and scoffed playfully, trying to change the sullen mood. It seemed to work as his son's mouth curved up slightly at the edges.

"There is no winter in you, child. You're made of sand."

The softness in the boy's face disappeared, replaced by steel… and a short life's worth of indignation. "The North is in my blood!"

Whether it was coincidence or whether it was something else entirely, Oberyn refused to dwell on it, but as his boy jutted his chin and made his defiant statement the woods came alive with the angry sound of crows. His son did not break his stare, the noise utterly lost on him, and as the tension lessened, as the boy's rigid posture slacked, the cawing din faded as well.

The Viper did not like this place; the North and their old gods. He had seen far too much - endured far too much - to grant faith in faith. But he knew by looking at him, the boy, like all of his children, bore something special. A singularity to his son that could not, and would not, be denied.

"Is that what she told you?" He asked softly, his words now respectful and solemn. "Is that what your mother said?"

The boy nodded, almost shy - an endearing innocence so much like the girl he remembered.

With little effort and a smooth motion, the Viper stood, stretching up to his full height. Looking down at his son, he offered his hand - a silent negotiation. More true, a bitter promise to do well by him for the sake of his dead mother.

Warily, not hesitant, the proffered hand was taken. His boy was careful with his trust, and Oberyn could not hide the proud smile that graced him. Turning to the Keep, the father stilted his stride for the benefit of the son; slowing his pace further when the boy looked back to his mother's grave.

"She will go north, I promise. Her family will be glad for her bones - and for her son."

"Starks in Winterfell," the boy croaked. His hand held on tighter to the larger one, trying to dissipate overwhelming emotions.

Oberyn looked down as they walked on. Pulling the hand, and the boy, a little closer, he looked up again toward the castle, and lightly asked, "What else did your mother teach you?"

A strong little tug on his hand brought Oberyn to a stop. The boy looked straight at him, with her eyes and his face, and spoke in a tone too grave to rightfully belong to a child, and said, "The North remembers."

Whatever smile and mirth Oberyn held moments before bled out with the cut of his son's words.

The godswood once again screeched an ugly uproar.

_The North remembers_.

They were the words of vengeance - a promise for justice the Viper understood all too well. He also knew that if it was he himself that earned his son's hate it would be a burden willfully shouldered, because vengeance of the heart was a debt beyond common value.

Because retribution for love is payed for with your soul.

And a soul, much like the North, never forgets.

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End file.
